It's a hard life
by RonCN
Summary: Part IV: Kimmuriel finally manages to step out from under Jarlaxle's great purple - I mean, Jarlaxle's shadow: new jobs, new policies, new look... If only he had known *beforehand* what this meant, he wouldn't have tried so hard. -series of one-shots-
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: _What is not mine, doesn't belong to me. _

Warnings: _This is a drow story, but I don't think its contents will warrant any particular warning. _

A/N: _This is a small project that has been bugging me for a while. It explores Kimmuriel Oblodra and Bregan D'aerthe's daily life, because in all honesty, I can't believe that the take over was as smooth as cannon makes it to be. The genre listed is 'general', because if this works – and I hope it does – there will be a variety of subjects touched: in any case, I'm taking this chance to experiment around. The story is a collection of scenes, so each part stands alone – in theory. But of course, - how could it be otherwise? – yes, I'll be making references to_ Future Markets_. Reading that other fic is not necessary, but if you haven't read it you might enjoy it. That said, I'll discreetly fade to the background and let you enjoy: if you do, please, click the review button at the end and let me know._

* * *

o O o

**I**

o

Many miles below the earth there was a maze of tunnels and caverns known as the Underdark, a world within a world, a place of bottomless abysms and unending wilderness.

Many miles below the surface, there was a cavern. And therein lain a fair city, of broad streets and vertiginous spires, of hard angles and elaborate intricacies, of beauty and decadency; a true jewel to behold called Menzoberranzan.

In this city, there were the rich and the poor, like in any other one, and they all go about their business like small spiders preying and scurrying along, without noticing the magnificent web that supports them. At most, they only watch the other silky strands, and observe their brothers and sisters, and cherish their own position counting the number of flies they have caught, knowing that no matter how small this number is, there is bound to be someone below them.

There was this one spider, fat and greedy, who has managed to gather many strands under its control, whose spiderlings are its eyes throughout the web, and who can feel the vibrations of dust settling in the farthest reaches of the cave.

And currently this spider was very much confused, for it was dangling the bait in front of the fly and it refused to walk peacefully into its trap.

The spider, which will be referred to as Vlondril Tuin'Tarl for clarity's sake, had come out of its well defended nest – namely, she was Instructor of Arach-Tinilith, the heart of Tier Breche – for the sole purpose of dangling a good sized pouch, containing no less than one hundred polished emeralds, under its prey's nose.

And this is were the metaphor ends, because Kimmuriel Oblodra, the elf sitting across from her in a non-descript safe house of the Braeryn, would not appreciate being called a 'fly'.

The drow psion slid the pouch back towards the Academy instructor, not stopping to consider its contents.

"I am afraid that the payment method is not adequate, esteemed Lady Vlondril."

"What nonsense are you sprouting, you insolent male?" the priestess hissed.

I'd like to know myself, thought Kimmuriel. His face and demeanour kept frozen in a mask of assurance and confidence, even though he was starting to wonder why he had accepted the meeting proposition.

"I am sure that this matter was addressed in our previous communications to arrange for this encounter," he explained calmly. "The new policy of Bregan D'aerthe establishes that payment for certain services shall not be monetary."

The female leaned forward across the table that stood between the two speakers, her dignity flying out the window as she narrowed her eyes to mere slits in an open threat.

"Do _you_ wish to cross the Seventh House of Menzoberranzan, you fool? You are scavenging more than you are worth! This insolence will cost you your life!"

Vlondril was old, and wrinkled in ways that no dark elf should be, and rumour had it that she was more than a little bit crazy, but _still_.

"Of course it was not my intention, honoured female," Kimmuriel forced himself to bow his head for a fraction of a blink, doing his best to appease the suddenly enraged priestess. "What Bregan D'aerthe seeks is to maximize the benefit for our clients, as you know…"

His attempt might have worked if he didn't have his own pride so ingrained. The psion didn't exercise his overwhelming charismatic appeal, and though he was as refined as a noble drow could ever be expected to be, his gifts went more towards the grooming of the mind than towards the expansion of one's acquaintances.

Said in plain words, handsome Kimmuriel was quite socially awkward.

This fact had never troubled the son of the fallen House Oblodra, though: he ruled from the shadows, and his books and experiments didn't need to be persuaded into cooperation. It hadn't even seemed to be a lacking area, right up until the moment he had had to start dealing with Matron Mothers and equally petty priestesses: Kimmuriel had the respect and fear of his men, so he could command them superbly as a lieutenant, but the females were proving to be another thing altogether.

Which was why, when he tried to sound appeasing, he came out as condescending.

"I want to deal directly with Jarlaxle," Vlondril cut him off. "_Now_. Your leader will not be happy to hear how you are behaving towards House Tuin'Tarl."

Kimmuriel's back went rigid at that.

Not because he feared Jarlaxle's reaction, but because he would like nothing better than to hand the old croon and her negotiations over to the eccentric dandy, and to go back to his psionic training. Lieutenant position was perfect as far as the drow was concerned, and he had aimed for leadership only because said Jarlaxle had gone temporarily nuts: the payback imposed by the Baenre rogue for trying to kill him had been temporary reign over Bregan D'aerthe, which was how Kimmuriel had landed himself negotiating with an old Academy Hag.

Truth be told, sometimes the psion dreamt that Jarlaxle was cured of his folly and that he came back to claim his rightful position, letting Kimmuriel off the hook.

Unfortunately, it was not to be.

"The new system has been developed by none other than Jarlaxle himself," he answered, barely managing to blunt the edge of his tone.

The Instructor of Arach-Tinilith changed her attitude almost immediately as she heard the rogue drow's name.

"So always clever Jarlaxle came up with this one, mmh? How did you say he called it?"

"Future Markets," the psion supplied, marvelled at how the mere mention of the Baenre's forgotten scion's name could work where everything else just failed.

The female stared him down for just a moment longer, as if assessing the truth of his words, and once she was satisfied she leaned back in her chair, her wrinkled lips pulling back in some mockery of a smile.

"Very well, then. The door open for me, the Weapon Master alive for you, and House Holrbar will be a nuisance no more. We all win," Vlondril made a sweeping gesture with her hand, and the movement showcased her bland flesh and greying skin.

The light of madness glowing in her eyes made her look more _Iblith_ than drow for a moment, and it was a moment that Kimmuriel took as his cue to leave. He was developing a headache and some rest was long overdue on his part.

The psion inclined his head in greeting, stood up and went to the door, but he was stopped before he could make it out.

"Wait. Though the standard payment has changed, I expect the rest of the procedures to go as they were," it wasn't worded as a question, but Kimmuriel knew it to be one.

He turned to answer, and caught a look in Vlondril's crazed eyes that made a shiver run down his spine and his hair stand on end. Unable to speak past his shock, he merely gave a look to mean that Bregan D'aerthe shouldn't be questioned, and stepped out of the room.

As soon as he did, he opened a shimmering dimensional door and hurried through it, allowing himself a few calming breaths once he was safe and sound in the sanctuary of his own room.

The elf reached up and started to un-braid his snow white hair, slowly, his fingers firm and his hands absolutely _not_ shaking.

… Vlondril Tuin'Tarl's eyes had displayed a look of absolute, smouldering _lust_.

The psion wondered just what kind of deals the Academy Instructor used to have with Jarlaxle that made her look at _him_ that way, but immediately decided that such knowledge was not mandatory for running the mercenary band, and that he would probably be much saner if he didn't know whether Bregan D'aerthe's leader was included in the traded package or not.

Kimmuriel Oblodra no longer required sleep. He needed a bath.

Extra heavy in scented oils. With a slave to scrub the harpy's eyes off of his skin.

Or better yet: make it two slaves.

o O o

See, many people believe that the mere concept of morality is alien to drow society, but this is not true and as he sat in the bathtub, his mind prying those of the slaves working on him to try to discern their murdering intentions, Kimmuriel realized this.

Like anywhere else, there were three rough moral categories, and then an array of individuals in between.

Menzoberranzan, the greatest spiderweb of the Underdark, the spiderweb he was suddenly expected to control… Menzoberranzan too was made up of three kinds of people:

Evil, Sadistically evil, and Jarlaxle.


	2. Chapter 2

A/N: _Misteriously enough, there's nothing to say in this a/n. So I'm just going to shut up, and let you read. If you enjoy it, please, review at the end!_

* * *

**II**

o

There was one thing that Kimmuriel had that Jarlaxle had never possessed. One thing that allowed Bregan D'aerthe's leader to walk unimpeded when important business awaited, one thing that left him ample way to traverse effortlessly the bustling streets of Menzoberranzan.

It was anonymity.

Where the bald rogue was as easily distinguishable as Narbondel and as memorable as Matron Baenre's temper, Kimmuriel could easily enjoy a freedom that the older male had never known.

The Oblodra son did look noble, and did look dangerous, and did look powerful, but to notice any of these things, one had to look upon him first. And the psion had perfected the art of being non-descript – under his simple piwafwi, he hid his fine silken shirts, and the cape's deep cowl kept his long and well combed tresses in the dark. He didn't even glow with powerful magic trinkets as a walking torch, as his predecessor had, because he had his sharp mind to rely on.

No, Kimmuriel Oblodra could truly mix with the Menzoberranyr as if he was just another one of them, listening to their words and their thoughts alike as he glided along, unnoticed.

And of course, the drow psion pondered bitterly, even such an advantage had to come and bite him in the ass.

"I believe you are waiting for me," he said, when the other made no point of speaking up.

"Dontcha try ta be funny with me, elf," the 'other', a short and stout gray dwarf, answered in a deeply accented Undercommon. "If that be all, ya shoulda be goin' yer own path now."

Kimmuriel sighed deeply. If only he didn't need that information, he thought.

"And yet you _are_ waiting for me," he said, leaning against the rocky wall and casting his mind wide, making sure that nobody was paying them any attention.

"Huh?" the dwarf asked, intelligently.

The passer-byes were too embedded in their own thoughts. Bregan D'aerthe's own mercenaries were positioned, all close and ready and totally invisible among the masses that made up Menzoberranzan's marketplace. The drow and the dwarf stood at such an unlikely place to carry out shady, secret deals that their secret was perfectly safe, and so Kimmuriel shifted and allowed the other a glimpse of the heavy purse that contained the agreed-upon payment.

The psion didn't need his powers to be able to _see_ the dwarf thinking. The hairless face went from angry to puzzled… then spent a considerable amount of time in 'puzzled'… and finally realization made an appearance, and the expression went back to angry.

"Elf, we hadda agreement. I be to meet jus' with the leader," the dwarf said.

"Of course. I am the leader," Kimmuriel kindly enlightened his interlocutor.

"No, ye ain't," an interlocutor who, like most of his race, refused to be enlightened. "The leader be bald and got jus' one eye. He be taller than ye. Dresses better, too. More leader-ishly," the helpful individual elaborated, and Kimmuriel felt the growing need to squish the useless brains of the lesser creature.

But the truth of the matter was that he needed a contact in the dwarven city, and it'd be troublesome to find a new one, so he forced his cool demeanor to overcome his needs.

"He of whom you speak was the former leader, and he appointed me as his successor. As the new leader," he explained slowly, as if talking to a hypnotized test subject.

The dwarf threw him a suspicious look.

"I never seen you befo'."

Yes, you've, Kimmuriel thought, and he had to clench his jaws to prevent himself from hissing it aloud. Every damn time you met with Jarlaxle, I was there. That's where lieutenants _are_. But of course, your porcine eyes would fail to notice anything beyond your deformed nose.

"I have certainly seen you, and I am the one who represents the organization that has kept your coffers full. That's all you need to see or understand," he finally said, his tone becoming slightly more clipped as his patience wore thin. "Now, I am a busy drow so if we must conduct business, we should do it before the news I require of you become stale."

Still, the gray dwarf refused to show the appropriate amount of fear, or of common sense, and instead of proceeding with the operation he decided to keep asking.

"Why I ain't be informed o' the change?"

Kimmuriel's fine nose caught a wisp of burned leather, heavy with sweat. Pungent, acrid, dwarven sweat, the drow thought in disgust.

Then the psion realized that it was because of his own outrage that the smell was bothering him to begin with. His mind was saturated and wishing for his contact's demise, and inadvertently he had exited the particles of the duergar's armor padding… And how easy would it be to allow it to flare up, and to watch as the creature was trapped with the fire inside his plate!

But.

But first things first, and profit came way before petty punishment. Besides, if he burned his contact in the middle of the market, he'd attract attention and one of his favorite places to exchange information would be busted.

So deep, calm breathing it was. Don't lose it yet, Kimmuriel, he encouraged himself.

"Do you question the drow?" he asked when he had regained a measure of control, his voice dangerously even.

The dwarf thought the question over.

To Kimmuriel's dismay, he dared to answer in the affirmative.

"Well," he said, resolutely, "me an' me mates give ye yer information, so we got ta have the right ta be informed. Right, lads?" and he addressed the other two gray dwarves that acted as escorts and that stood nearby.

The former Oblodra narrowed his eyes.

And now, he had the gall to attempt to intimidate him? Kimmuriel couldn't be too sure, because such ridiculousness didn't warrant his attention, but he thought that it was the case.

He made a discreet gesture with his hand, and his own lieutenant stepped out of the shadows. If the pathetic little runt wanted a show of strength, then the psion would give him a show of strength.

A demonstration of intelligence would be wasted on the duergar anyway, he mused.

Luckily, Kimmuriel's lieutenant wasn't as inconspicuous as Kimmuriel himself and immediately drew the attention of all three dwarves. Their small round eyes fixated on the wicked double sword that the warrior had casually swung over one shoulder, and it was painfully obvious to their battle-oriented minds that they wouldn't stand a chance against the drow.

"The lesser races have no rights, and you should consider yourself lucky that we deign to hear your 'information'," and the tone used by the psion made very clear that he could, and would, have all their small rocky heads chopped and turned into furniture embellishments.

Finally, the dwarf seemed to understand just who he was dealing with, and, his grayish skin slightly paler, he started to spill what he had been asked to report.

o O o

Kimmuriel watched the three duergar go, satisfied to know that the adamantite supply to his city had lessened because the mineral was becoming rarer in the dwarven mines, and not because some kind of offensive was in the makings.

But it upset him the nerve those filthy dwarves had shown.

Too many things upset him lately, and as he walked through the marked back to the band's hidden den, he wondered if such a thing was healthy. If Ray-Guy were still around he'd ask him, but as things stood Bregan D'aerthe was short on clerics.

And he wasn't dead nor dying yet, so he was not going to ask a priestess.

The psion caught sight of a herbalist vendor, though, and decided that, just in case, he should get something for the stress and lack of sleep. And for the near-constant headaches. And for his rapidly developing stomach ulcer.

It couldn't hurt.

"A good day to you," he said to the salesperson, putting the meeting behind to adopt the people's person role that the leader of Bregan D'aerthe needed to fill.

"Good day, Master," the other, an old drow who had been selling potions and herbal remedies for centuries, answered. "How can I help you?"

"I would need a soft energizing draught. It must also be relaxing, but it is mandatory that it doesn't affect one's mind functions or lucidity."

If the merchant thought that the request was weird or contradictory, he was too experienced to show it. After a heartbeat's worth of deliberation, he produced a fairly good sized vial and offered it to his customer.

"I believe this shall satisfy your needs, young Master."

"Excellent. Thank you for your services."

Kimmuriel pocketed the flask and made to continue his walk, but the merchant stopped him.

"Excuse me, young Master? That's 250 gold."

The psion blinked. He didn't even think of being infuriated, he was so surprised. Bregan D'aerthe was powerful, its actions usually meant profit for the city and thus for the merchants, and it was the one and only non-Lolth created organization in the city, which earned them quite a good amount of sympathies. The mercenary band simply didn't pay for such small services. Never. If anything, the amount was added to a tab, and requested when it became too huge – though if it ever became too huge, the tab records used to disappear rather mysteriously…

"Pardon?" finally, Kimmuriel could ask. "Do you charge Bregan D'aerthe's leader for a _single potion_?"

And it was the merchant's turn to be so surprised that he couldn't think of apologizing.

"… Bregan D'aerthe's leader? But…"

Kimmuriel sighed, and did his best to ignore the chuckle that escaped his lieutenant.

Perhaps he should spike his hair. Dye it red, or green. Green would compliment his eyes better.

Definitely, though, he had to change his wardrobe.


	3. Chapter 3

A/N: _This idea came to me in a bout of sleep deprivation. Hope you enjoy it..._ _The foundations of Kimmuriel's relationship with his lieutenant are laid in my other fiction, _Future Markets_. It seems I was unable to go on without bringing some aspect of it into the equation. _

_And yes, I do realize that Eldath is a nature goddess' name. The fact that Bregan D'aerthe's lieutenant's name is switched and goodly is not my fault, though: Eldath is an official game character of Atari's _Hordes of the Underdark_. Granted, his cannon role doesn't go beyond trying to kill you, but I was intrigued, borrowed him, and explored his possibilities. _(-.-)_' Sorry! _

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o O o

**III**

o

Kimmuriel disliked the training pits the most among all the facilities that belonged to Bregan D'aerthe.

The prim and proper psion found an inherent disgusting nature to the idea of scores of elves simultaneously giving themselves over to the task of perfecting their physical prowess, each and every one of them lost in their own demonstration of brute strength.

Probably that was the sole reason he had been pressed to come to the pits, too.

Kimmuriel forced his breath to come deep and even. His day had barely started, and it wouldn't do to sour it this early, when he still had meetings to attend, petitioners to listen to, and propositions to make.

Still, he felt that he had a right to be slightly outraged.

Back when he was a lieutenant, if Jarlaxle summoned you, you left your experiments as soon as possible and you went to Jarlaxle.

You never sent back the same messenger instructing Jarlaxle to come find you.

Why he hadn't forced the insolent warrior to report to him, preferably in several bits and pieces, was beyond him.

Perhaps it was because Eldath had won over the respect of Bregan D'aerthe, and it would be poorly considered to punish his subordinate for actually doing his job – he hated to admit it, but the band's first line fighters were becoming stronger thanks to the continued sparring the newcomer made them all undergo.

One day, though, that cocky Eldath would push too far and Kimmuriel would be happily waiting to help him go over the deep end.

Meanwhile, the psion kept dancing the intricate waltz of dominance with the secretive warrior, knowing full well that one's enemies must be held close and tight.

When he arrived to the grounds, earning curious looks from several training drow who were not used to seeing him so far from his office or rooms, it was easy to locate the figure he was looking for. Eldath had a slender, graceful build that made him noticeable even among the other dark elves, and, when he fought, the strength packed in his flat muscles always made for an eye-catching show.

Besides, the weapon master seemed to have taken 'dual sword fighting technique' to a whole new level, since his weapon of choice was a two-handed, double-bladed sword which lent itself very well to his deadly, impressive displays of finesse.

And which made him stand out in the crowd like a sore thumb, too.

Kimmuriel consciously checked his always carefully schooled features, to make sure that he displayed nothing of the contempt he felt towards the other male.

It was a short while before Eldath decided to acknowledge his presence.

Swinging his five-foot long blade over his shoulder in a gesture that would have had many dark elves running cold with sweat, the drow warrior walked – no, stalked quickly and soundlessly up to Kimmuriel, a satisfied smirk in place.

Some might have seen his feline behavior as a threat, but not the powerful psion. It didn't matter how hard or how fast Eldath could strike out with his weapon, his thoughts were quicker.

With this confidence, the former Oblodra waited patiently as his subordinate carefully removed the padded training protections and set his wicked sword aside, as he took off the well cared-for armor and as he used a cloth to wipe the worst of his sweat off his face and neck.

Kimmuriel was _not_ going to let the other drow know that he actually wanted to discuss some business.

Finally, Eldath turned to face him, pushing some stray locks of hair out of his forehead.

"I really apologize for making you come out here, leader," he said.

Without a hint of apology in his otherwise amused voice, of course.

"I am working over the last details of the Tuin'Tarl assignment with the operational commandoes, and I couldn't very well leave them all training to answer the call."

"Of course," the psion answered coldly. "I trust the preparations are going well?"

Eldath nodded, his ever present smirk widening into a darkly pleased smile.

"Indeed they are. The organization has good soldiers, and with the adequate training their potential is turning out to be something to reckon."

"An adequate training that you are supplying."

"Obviously," the warrior chuckled softly, letting his eyes wander over the dark elves in training. "I know all the tricks about clawing out a House's innards."

He turned his unsettling gaze onto Kimmuriel and added, barely above a whisper,

"Don't worry. Vlondril will be quite pleased."

Kimmuriel felt hordes of spiders crawling across his skin at the mere mention of the name. His neck still itched just from the look she had given him last time, as if merely her eyes feasting on his flesh could have given him a permanent rash.

Well, he didn't know about her eyes, but he was not going to take any risk regarding her fingers.

A quick blinking motion was all the discomfort the psion allowed himself to manifest, though. Then, his look was calm and collected as if no unpleasant thoughts could faze him.

"That would be Honored Instructor of House Tuin'Tarl… and I hope she won't have complaints about Bregan D'aerthe's performance, for our coffer's own good – and for your neck."

"I apologize again… It is not that long since I arrived, and I'm still unfamiliar with the Houses and titles of Menzoberranzan," but the warrior was looking far from contrite, and his whole countenance said so.

Furthermore, it said that he felt in charge of the conversation. That he had known what Kimmuriel wanted from him all along.

The sheer arrogance of such implications infuriated Kimmuriel.

"See to it that you learn your place soon enough" – both in this city and in this band, was what hung in the air in the pregnant pause made by the psion. "Meanwhile, there were other matters I wished to discuss with you."

"I know."

"Every time, you presume to know much."

"At any time, have I disappointed you?"

Eldath leaned casually against the wall besides Kimmuriel, his body relaxed and his expression consciously left unguarded.

The warrior was adamant about not letting the psion into his mind, but from time to time he allowed the mercenary leader a taste of his sincerity the traditional way.

This time, his eyes showed that whenever he had flaunted knowledge it was because he had possessed it. The peek was meant as an assurance of his truthfulness, a guarantee of his competence, and a reminder of his power: even beyond Bregan D'aerthe's informant network, there was no secret safe from him, while at the same time the most powerful spying organization had not managed to unearth a single word about his own past.

Kimmuriel took it all in stride and kept going on.

"Shall we get to it, then? In my office this time."

"Not so fast."

The psion didn't have time to take a single step out of the training grounds before his lieutenant stopped him, his posture still casual but his eyes narrowed and glinting with the hardness of steel.

"This request of yours is personal."

"Pardon?"

Eldath chuckled.

"I merely want an exchange. Good for you, good for me, and everybody is happy."

Kimmuriel ground his teeth in frustration. He was effectively suffering one full day's worth of irritation, and Narbondel wasn't even a fourth of the way up.

"What do you want?"

"Holidays."

"No."

There was no way. He _refused_. If that bastard started slacking on the job when he should be setting an example for all the foot soldiers to follow, then Bregan D'aerthe was done for.

"You need me," and there was enough amusement and malice dripping off Eldath's every word that Kimmuriel immediately knew what the other meant.

"This is going to be one of your Future Market ideas, right?"

"You learn quickly."

I have to, the psion thought. To the outside world, he remained stoic and silent, waiting for the other male to elaborate.

The weapon master pushed away from the wall, lazily rotating his shoulders and smiling wickedly as he proceeded to explain.

"I want a day off regularly awarded to mind my own business, and you are in dire need of help, are you not? But it'd never do for a lieutenant to just disappear from time to time, and quite honestly you don't want to be left to your own devices, because that would mean 'Jarlaxle'."

Eldath hadn't really gotten to know the infamous rogue, for his incorporation to Bregan D'aerthe had been more recent than the rogue's resignation, but he had heard tales and rumors. He knew all about the swashbuckler high heeled boots, the rainbow colored cloak, the high cut open vest and the floppy purple hat.

And judging by the imperceptible way in which Kimmuriel swallowed, Eldath knew that he had all but won.

"So," the weapon master continued, "we settle. I settle for a less tight schedule to avoid suspicion, and you settle for me helping you instead of for a whole team."

Kimmuriel thought about it for a long moment. He truly disliked the other drow, and he entertained the idea that he could find help for this particular operation somewhere else. But doing so would mean exposing his weakness - because any lacking was bound to be perceived as a weakness -, and then there was the very accurate comment made by the warrior.

Everyone else in Bregan D'aerthe had gotten along and, up to a certain point, had admired Jarlaxle. They were all biased. They wouldn't do.

Everything in him screamed against being manipulated like that, but the psion realized that there was no other option.

"Very well. Your duties will allow for a reasonable amount of free time, that you'll be able to dedicate to your own activities, under your own discretion, as long as said activities are not a liability to Bregan D'aerthe'," he conceded. "Satisfied?"

"Very," Eldath said in a low voice, trying with all his might to hide the sense of utter triumph he had felt when the former Oblodra had given in.

"Now, can we move on to discuss my business? In my office?" Kimmuriel glared to the weapon master, as if daring him to present another complain.

"Of course. Please, lead the way."

o O o

Kimmuriel closed the door to his personal office behind his subordinate's back, and he took a deep breath as he secured all the psionic locks and traps that plagued the stone slab.

When he turned to face Eldath, he was dead serious. An image of Jarlaxle was still dancing merrily, forever ingrained in his mind.

"There is just one condition before we proceed with the operation. An agreement on principles, if you will."

Eldath arched one white eyebrow, prompting the other to go on.

Kimmuriel narrowed his eyes and straightened his back. He had to make sure to get this point across: he admitted to needing some guidance in the particular matter, but some things were absolutely non-negotiable.

"No high cut vest."

The warrior's face split in a twisted, mischievous grin.

"Don't worry, I've got taste. I'll explain you everything about obtaining a new dynamic, attractive image without becoming Jarlaxle's copycat in the process!"

Satisfied, Kimmuriel nodded and motioned towards the office's table, and the two males sat down to painstakingly unveil and study the mysteries of fashion and coolness.

It was a titanic task looming ahead.


	4. Chapter 4

A/N: _Wasn't planning on finishing the series yet, but I think that this is almost natural: if I don't stop now, I don't known when I will. Still, it doesn't mean that I won't keep writing about our friends – heck, if you guys ask me to, I might even end up reopening this story! _

_Anyway, here it comes: Kimmuriel's final test. Something had to work out well for our favorite psion... right? Hah! As if...  
_

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* * *

  
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o O o

**IV**

o

If nothing else, Kimmuriel was proficient. He knew how to calculate risks, determine benefits, choose his ventures…: he was perfectly able to lead Bregan D'aerthe to heights of power that the mercenary band hadn't even dared to dream about.

However, he had to admit, at least to his innermost self, that he was a bit short on the, well, the _leading_ department.

Perhaps that was the hidden reason behind the ungodly fuss he was making about the Tuin'Tarl job. Deep down, the psion knew that he had already triple-checked every possible liability, that he had assigned the very bets soldiers to the task, that he had a back-up plan in case the back-up of the plan went awry… But that didn't stop him from worrying and going over it all again in his head.

He gritted his teeth – this was the first job of the new Bregan D'aerthe, and it was going to come along smoothly, damn it!

His long, slender finders played with the small whistle that would give the signal for his soldiers to move. It was a leisured gesture, and it was all the nervousness Kimmuriel allowed to show before he strode out of his personal quarters.

He could have just opened a dimensional window, or had a wizard scry the location, to spy the perfect moment to turn the tides of battle, and probably he'd do so in the future. This time around, though, he needed to keep a closer eye on the battlefield.

He wanted to be close enough to _feel_ what was going on in the doomed household. He wanted to hear the commotion, and he wanted to see how his soldiers performed in the moment of truth.

He had even picked the perfect spot beforehand.

Menzoberranzan was a sight to behold from that spot, too. The dim feeric fires lighted up the noble Houses, casting their otherworldly glow upon the statues and the spidery motives, displaying a true web in purples and blues. A bit further, the Braeryn was ablaze with its own sort of illumination: the heat of the endless souls surviving in that pit hole was a bright shade of fluctuating red in Kimmuriel's infravision. If he craned his neck a bit, he could even see Tier Breche: the Academy, the huge niche overlooking the city like a never-sleeping guardian… And yes, there it was.

A dark mass of moving shadows, hundreds of bodies hidden from view by the spells of some priestess or another, was scurrying like a deadly spider past him and towards House Holrbar. Kimmuriel almost felt his toes curl in excitement at the sight.

The strike force on the move was made up entirely of Tuin'Tarl soldiers and slaves: Bregan D'aerthe was waiting, poised to strike on its own conditions, already being part of the attacked House – like a canker that would kill its host unseen and unheard.

The psion waited a bit longer on baited breath, his sharp eyes following eagerly every move of the Houses below his feet: every spell flung, every trap triggered.

Then, with a devious smirk hinting its presence in his forever stoic features, he pulled out the whistle and blew.

No sound came out – no real sound. But every member of Bregan D'aerthe within the city and beyond heard the clear psionic note…

… and the double doors defending House Holrbar pulled open.

The confusion that broke then reached even Kimmuril in his shadowed corner, sending a thrill up his spine as Tuin'Tarl troops reacted in perfect sync and entered the compound.

With all defenses breached, it was only a matter of time before the House feel, so Bregan D'aerthe had technically finished its job.

But the psion didn't budge from his post until the last fires of the ransacking invaders started to go out. He was deep in thought, contemplating the scene, analyzing how the events had played out. Only when one of this mercenaries approached him in deferent silence did he take his eyes off of the breathtaking sight.

"Sir," the other male said softly, "it's over. All of our troops have reported back, and all objectives have been accomplished."

With a wave of the hand, the soldier was dismissed and Kimmuriel was once again left to his own musings. The former Oblodra couldn't help a small twinge of pride swelling in his chest: his subordinates had performed beautifully, each of them, uncovering the enemy's weaknesses during their short infiltration and exploiting them at just the right moment to allow Tuin'Tarl to topple the smaller House. More than half the valuable exploits were in their way to the Clawrift quarters, along with Weapons Master Rhyl'lyn of House Holrbar, currently of No House Worth Mentioning.

That drow alone was good enough payment for bringing down the House – he'd make an excellent commander, and, given time, he could perhaps make a good second lieutenant. The band was, after all, painfully short on those.

However, not all thoughts were focused on the success accomplished.

Kimmuriel also reflected upon the unbound chaos that had been the battlefield, even if it had only lasted a few moments thanks to Bregan D'aerthe. The shortness of it didn't make it any less terrifying in its magnitude, though: the order of the whole city had changed in a few scant moments.

Many of his fellow drow would revel on the thought, many would see the chances it presented. Any Lolth priestess would babble on and on about how drow were a race arisen from that very same chaos…

The psion simply shuddered.

To him, it was just a humbling vision: a peek at what could possibly happen if he were to ever loosen the hand of steel that steered his mercenary band.

Everything would crumble.

Kimmuriel allowed himself the barest hint of a silent sight. He had to brave the last part of the mission to ensure complete success, and he had to do it alone – or else he could kiss his future hopes goodbye.

This thought gave him half the resolution he felt he needed to gather before proceeding.

The other half stemmed from the very embarrassing thought that _Jarlaxle_ dealt with this kind of things on a daily basis… and the psion was determined to step out of Jarlaxle's shadow.

Kimmuriel Oblodra was going to outshine the Baenre scion: he was going to be the leader the mercenary band needed.

He squared his shoulders and stalked out of the shadows, along the less known streets of Menzoberranzan and into the area he knew best: the shadowy abodes where Bregan D'aerthe could conduct business.

As he went on, though, he realized that there was something different this time: he was not a colorless figure fading to the background – there was recognition in the faces he passed by, there was a clear path opened for him, there were hasty bows of respect left and right.

He walked, and all the power and grace of Bregan D'aerthe followed him silently every step of the way.

By the time he reached the safe house where he was to meet with Vlondril Tuin'Tarl, he was already tired and his shoulders ached as if he had been trying to arm wrestle a gray dwarf.

The hungry look that the wrinkled female gave him did _very_ little to help him relax, but at the very least it told him in no uncertain terms that she was dealing with _him_ this time, not with Jarlaxle, and that gave him a bit of strength if nothing else.

Her sunken eyes practically raked over his frame, from his fine features, down to his leather-clad chest, stopping a bit in the exposed hollow of his throat before moving south to his form-fitting pants, zeroing in a certain area that made Kimmuriel highly uncomfortable.

"My, my, don't you look smart in lizard skin," she _purred_, licking her almost non-existent lips.

Kimmuriel kept his face carefully blank. He could deal with his. He was _so_ going to be able to deal with his.

"Mistress Tuin'Tarl," he said, bowing slightly and letting the movement shift his sleeveless robe.

He wanted as many layers of cloth as possible between that harpy's eyes and his skin.

"I trust you're pleased with Bregan D'aerthe's performance," he added, completely overlooking her comment about his body.

"Indeed," she said, with a lust-filled smile. "Bregan D'aerthe… does please me."

Kimmuriel's mind was probably one of the most prodigious things in Menzoberranzan, but he thoroughly failed to catch onto the innuendo.

He had forced his brain to focus on the literal words, knowing that if he so much as acknowledged the suggestive undertones, he'd be scarred for life.

"I'm glad to hear so. It has certainly been a pleasure and an honor for Bregan D'aerthe to serve the mighty House Tuin-Tarl."

The female's eyes narrowed, and the psion pressed on before she could say anything that would have him backed against a corner.

"Because of the Future Markets arrangement, payment has already been served: if there is nothing else, then, I believe it is safe to say that our first joint venture has been a success."

Vlondril smiled and nodded, settling back on her chair like a great hairy spider retiring to the corner of its net to wait for prey. The Mistress of Arach Tinilith realized that this little fly before her had turned out to be a pretty spiderling, and she decided to wait, and to start to spin her web, patiently, making it thicker and thicker, stickier and stickier.

She made a dismissive gesture, and watched as Kimmuriel turned around and left the room while a wicked smile made its way to her old face.

It seemed that he was a fine successor to Jarlaxle, and he certainly made a fine catch.

The door to the safe house closed, and the big fat spider that was Vlondril Tuin'Tarl spun and spun her silky, deadly trap.

o O o

Kimmuriel relaxed slightly as soon as he stood outside the safe house, but he remained tense right up until the moment he stepped on Bregan D'aerthe's Head Quarters in the Clawrift.

He had every intention of heading straight away to his personal rooms, perhaps take an hour-long scented bath or two…

But he was interrupted by a gentle tap to the shoulder.

He didn't need to turn to know what it was his lieutenant, Eldath. For one, no one else would dare to touch him so casually, and then there was the fact that he was the only one whose thoughts the psion couldn't hear approaching.

"What do you want?" he asked thought gritted teeth and an incoming headache.

Eldath let out a rich chuckle in response.

"Someone's really sour, even though the mission was a complete success!"

Kimmuriel just shot a dirty look to the fighter, which only made him laugh harder.

"Okay, I see that it's not the time to talk about it… Rhyl'lyn is waiting for you to welcome him to the company, but there's no hurry. Besides, if you go right now you'll just scare him." the other drow reported, before giving an appreciative once over to his leader.

"But do tell me how you feel with your new image, though! I created it, I got a right! And I can tell that today you truly walked the streets as Bregan D'aerthe's leader. You _do_ look impressive, if I may say so myself."

The psion forced back a sigh, and confessed.

"Yes, it has presented the expected results. No one will question my identity from now on, I think."

Only, Kimmuriel was no longer sure about wanting to step out of anonymity. He found himself missing his comfortable pants, loose shirt and non-descript piwafwi.

Other males just had to endure the looks of desire incited in females, or the envious (and occasionally lustful) stares from other males, and try not to wonder about what they wanted to do with them.

Kimmuriel, though, was a different case.

He _read_ people's minds. He didn't have to suppose or wonder: as he crossed the city, he had _heard_ what all those perverts wanted to do to him.

Worse, he had _seen_ what Vlondril wanted to do to him.

Kimmuriel Oblodra openly shuddered in public.

He was never _ever_ going to look phosphorescent mushrooms the same way.


End file.
